The Prettiest Doctor of Them All
by Rayndrop
Summary: Yay crackfic! The Fifth, Eighth, and Tenth Doctors are abducted by fangirldom and made to compete for title of "Prettiest of the Prettyboy Doctors"... with the help of three fangirl judges! Rated T just to be safe, for slight innuendo.
1. Abducted!

The Prettiest Doctor of them All

Thanks to Grimm0000 for help with idea-hatching, and to my friends Loppy (Lordofpastries on FF) and Naomi for using their 'likenesses' for Fangirls A and C! Mwahs to you two!

Disclaimer: As much as I'd like to own the yummy Doctor, I sadly do not.

The Doctor woke up very confused, and at approximately the same time as himselves. Most of him looked about at where he had found himselves before taking note of those around him. A stage, it seemed, with an invisible audience in front and darkened wings to the side. Above, he could barely see the fringe of a raised velvet curtain. The stage itself was huge and darkened except for the three spotlights which each rested on him. Hims? Blasted pronouns, thought the Doctor. They never made the already befuddling experience of crossing his own timeline any easier.

At least, that was what the eldest Doctor thought, knowing the faces of his two fellows as soon as he saw them. They were his faces, after all, or had been. The next eldest, having recognized his predecessor, was now sizing up his successor and putting together the pieces. And for once, even the youngest wasn't out of the loop.

"You…?" The blond in the cricketer's uniform squinted at the tall, gangly chap he had just noticed, who was sitting up in his spotlight, propped up on his hands and grinning broadly at his youngest self. "You!"

"Me," agreed the eldest. "Brilliant to see you again this soon!" The youngest didn't seem nearly so enthused.

"Did you forget to put your shields up again?" He spoke disapprovingly.

The other Doctor gestured around at the mysterious stage. "This look like the TARDIS? Nope, this time it's got nothing to do with me." He seemed much more interested than worried.

"Where are we anyway?" asked the Doctor in the velvet frock coat, casting wondering gray eyes again over their surroundings. "Some sort of theater, apparently?" Being alarmed and threatened by unfamiliar circumstances, it was clear, was a trait of the Doctor's human companions, not the Doctor. When facing a strange situation by himself--or himselves, as the case may be--calm curiosity was the order of the day.

"And here by design it seems," added the skinny one, waving his hand at the spotlights posed over each of them.

"Excuse me," put in the blond as he stood up and dusted off his striped pants, addressing the velvet-clad Doctor. "I know the other fellow, but I don't believe I know _you_. I'm the Doctor. Or, well, _we're_ the Doctor. Er..."

The older waved off a further explanation with a smile. "Oh, I know. I'm the Doctor, too."

"Middle child, him," said the eldest, nodding at him. "The, um... Eighth, right?" The other nodded. "You lose count so easily. I'm the Tenth."

"Fifth" needlessly added the last in an absent tone before he strode off to investigate the nearest wing. He reached into the darkness past the edge, and tapped something. "A wall." He frowned. "Strange place to put one. The Doctors shall not exit stage left, then."

"Nor stage right," called the Eighth Doctor from where he'd wandered to the other side. "Wall here as well." He looked over at the Tenth, who was standing in his spotlight looking thoughtful. "Doctor?" called Eight. "Is it the same with the back curtain?"

Ten stuffed one hand in a coat pocket and ran the other through his hair. "Frankly, I'm more interested in the audience. Why us, do you think?"

The Fifth Doctor shrugged helplessly. "Whi is it ever us?"

"No, no," said the Eighth, catching the Tenth's drift. "Not 'why me,' 'why us.'"

The elder Doctor nodded. "Five, Eight and Ten. No numerical logic there, is there?"

The Fifth shook his head. "Do we have any shared experiences?" he ventured. "Shared enemies, perhaps?"

The three Doctors thought for a moment. "None that some other regeneration doesn't share as well," Ten said at last.

"The what _do_ we have in common?" Eight asked. They all went quiet again, pondering.

After a few minutes, Ten spoke up. "We're all very..." The other two looked at him expectantly. "We're all very...pretty," he suggested. The Eighth Doctor blinked, and the Fifth looked disparaging. "The prettiest faces I've ever had, as a matter of fact."

"Come now," said Five. "Who in the universe or out of it is going to pluck ups from our timeline because we're 'pretty'?"

The Tenth Doctor looked ill at ease. He glanced toward the invisible audience, and leaned toward his other incarnations. "Well," he said in a low voice, "there _are_ the fangirls."

As if on that signal, marquee lights suddenly flashed on and began running around the sides and top of the stage. The white spotlights snapped to where the Doctors had repositioned themselves, and colored spotlights joined them to twirl around the stage to the strong drumbeat of the naggingly familiar music which had started playing. About the time when something between a female opera singer and a slide whistle kicked in with a haunting "Oooo-ooo-ooh," an omnipresent voice started speaking over the music.

"Time Lords and Time Ladies, Gallifreyans and Earthlings, companions and wannabes, and _fangirls from across the galaxy!"_ boomed the female voice. "Welcome to the one and only Prettyboy Doctor Championship!"

"Told you," said Ten a little smugly.

"Will you please put your hands together for our three contestants! I give you: the Fifth Doctor!" His spotlight brightened considerably, and Five threw up an arm to shield his eyes. The audience rang with cheers and wolf whistles.

"The Eighth Doctor!" The Fifth's spotlight flicked back to its previous brightness, leaving him dazed and blinking, just as the Eighth's flared. He blinked too in the light, and smiled uncertainly. In addition to the applause and scattered screams, a few carnations were flung from the darkness to land at his feet.

"And the Tenth Doctor!" For him, no carnations accompanied the cheers. Instead, it was panties. Ten grinned and waved. Five looked shocked, but also a little insulted.

"These three regenerations of everyone's favorite hero of time and space will participate in a three-stage competition. The winner will receive the title of 'Prettiest of the Prettyboy Doctors'!" More cheering erupted from the audience.

"And er, what if we don't _wish_ to participate?" asked the Fifth Doctor.

"At the conclusion of the championship," said the Voice cheerily, "all TARDISes will be returned to their owners."

The Doctors looked at each other. "Well," said the Fifth over the fading applause.

"I suppose we should humor them, then," concluded the Eighth.

"Just a little beauty pageant and we're back on our ways," the Tenth Doctor said brightly. "Why not?"

"I've faced stranger things," the Eight agreed. "Three stages, you say?" he called, addressing the announcer Voice. "What's the first?"

"The first stage of our competition," said the voice obligingly, will assess our contestants' senses of style. And to kick things off, we welcome our judges for the events! A round of applause for... Fangirl A!"

In the darkness beyond the stage, a spotlight flicked on over a balcony box, making it visible. A bespectacled teenage brunette emerged from a door and stood in the box, giggling loudly and waving so violently her arm looked about to wrench off at the shoulder.

"Fangirl B!" An older girl in brown plaited pigtails and a t-shirt reading 'WOULD YOU LIKE A JELLY BABY?' came out after the first, and bowed with a grin.

"And Fangirl C!" A petite girl with short, purple hair followed, waving, though not quite as emphatically as Fangirl A, and blew a few kisses toward the stage.

"Will the contestants please exit to the left in preparation for the first stage," instructed the Voice. All the Doctors automatically looked in the named direction. Where had previously been a black wall, there was now a dimly lighted passage. The Doctors shrugged at each other, and did as they had been instructed.


	2. The Style Show

**AN:** Wow. People saying how funny the first chapter was kind of blew my mind. I didn't think it was that funny—I figured it was more sacrificing the humor for the sake of exposition. oO I should write humor more. I love doing it, and apparently I'm sorta good too.

Disclaimer: If I owned Doctor Who, I wouldn't have to stoop to self-insertion in a bonkers crackfic.

**--**

Scenery descended from above the stage on ropes: a catwalk with footlights, an arch for the 'models' to enter through, and a line of illuminated panels, emblazoned with question marks, forming walls on either side of the arch. Some synthesized music better suited to a runway replaced the whooshing, howling tune which had been running.

"In this stage, the Doctors will exhibit their signature outfits! The will be evaluated by the judges on basis of overall design, cuteness on the wearer, and other qualities."

"And here comes our first contestant now: the Fifth Doctor!"

There was a long pause. The Fifth appeared circumspectly in the doorway, and squinted in the bright spotlight. After a moment, he jolted as though someone had poked him very insistently. He glanced in annoyance over his shoulder, and then passed through the arch. The Voice immediately took up commentary.

"This beige-and-white ensemble with orange accents is a variation upon an Edwardian cricket player's uniform, or so wikipedia tells me," recited the Voice as he walked cautiously down the runway. The Doctor looked unimpressed at the citation. "The dapper tailcoat over preppy-casual slipover, and with the classy panache of the panama hat, ensures that this good Doctor will never be either overdressed or underdressed." At this the Doctor seemed pleased, and his progression down the catwalk became a little more confident.

"Meanwhile, the orange and white striped pajama pants--"

"_What?_" Five put in sharply, looking offended.

"--are a look that takes guts to even attempt, much less pull off," continued the voice, "but this Time Lord has guts to spare, as he proves with his other daring couture choice: celery-as-decorative-brooch!"

There were hoots and whistles from the box. The Doctor looked up to see the judges cheering, with Fangirl A holding up a "We (heart) the celery" sign. He smiled and waved a little self-consciously.

"And finally," the Voice said, "if you could pull out your glasses...?"

The Doctor fished in his coat pocket and retrieved a pair of gold wire-rimmed spectacles. "You mean these?" he said, holding them up as a question. He put them on, and was startled to find himself met with even more cheers.

"There you have it ladies--the brainy specs! Pure nerd-sexy!" He hurriedly took them off, embarrassed.

"Now," said the voice,"if you'd be so kind, the judges have a couple of questions for you."

"Questions?" the Fifth Doctor echoed warily.

"Just some good-natured, standard pageant questions, nothing more. Here's the first one. Fangirl A?"

The first fangirl raised a hand microphone. "Hi! I think you're awesome!"

There was a pause. "Is... is that the question?"

Fangirl A erupted in giggles. "Nooooo!" she squeaked. "My question is, why haven't you replaced the sonic screwdriver?! It's awesome!"

Five frowned, very conscious that this was not, in fact, a standard pageant question. "Ah, I don't really want to. I can get along without it."

Fangirl A looked like she had something else to say, but Fangirl B took the mic from her. "My question is, did you ever hook up with Tegan or Nyssa?" The Doctor blanched. "In even the broadest possible sense."

He took a moment to compose himself, then said, in a tone of offended dignity, "No. I most certainly have not. I treat all my companions with the utmost respect."

"Respect, reshmect. Did you ever _want_--Ow!" She was cut off by an elbow in the ribs from Fangirl C and reluctantly handed over the mic. C looked at the other two judgmentally, and, with an air of one who considers herself the last bastion of decency, read her question from a piece of paper.

"What do you consider the most important qualities in a companion?"

The Doctor looked grateful. He considered the question seriously. "Let's see... I'd say an inventive mind, and an ability to take the initiative."Fangirl B clapped her hands over her mouth to smother a sudden snort of laughter. The Doctor looked bewildered.

"Thank you, Doctor," put in the Voice. Five very willingly withdrew down the runway and took a post to the left of the arch, in front of one of the question-mark panels, with no small relief and accompanied by enthusiastic applause.

"Up next, we have the Eighth Doctor!"

The Eighth was less reluctant than his predecessor. He sauntered out with his hands behind his back, and an unassuming smile on his face.

"The Eighth Doctor is a Dickensian fashion plate in a gold brocade waistcoat, a frock coat of green--" There was an astounded pause. "...Black? Green... dark green maybe."

"I believe it's black," offered the Doctor helpfully.

"Really!" The Voice sounded rather astonished. "Well! Learn something new every day and all that. It's really black?"

"Yes," answered Eight. "It's a quality of velvet, I'm told. Black velvet looks different colors depending on the light."

"Huh. A frock coat of _black_ velvet then," said the Voice, resuming, "A gray silk cravat--yes, we've got some enthusiasm for the cravat in the judge's box, I see!"

There were more cheers and screams indeed from the box; Fangirl B was waving about a big "We (heart) the cravat" sign and doing most of the screaming. The Doctor raised a hand in acknowledgment and looked modestly pleased.

"Completing this stylish ensemble, a simple pair of gray trous--wait. Beige? Oh, come on, really now, this is ridiculous," the Voice complained. "Are they gray or are they beige? They're kind of in between."

"Greige," called Fangirl B.

"Greige? Seriously? That's a word?" said the Voice. Fangirl B nodded. "Okay then, fine. Greige trousers. And there are shoes. That's it, we're done here. Questions, judges?"

The Eighth Doctor looked a little hurt that his shoes had been so quickly glossed over. Fangirl A took the mic.

"Hiiiiii!" she squealed. "Um, before I ask my question?! I want to say?! Maybe in the future you should check outside before you leave the TARDIS! Because getting shot by those gangsters was pretty weaksauce!"

Eight looked discomfited. "Yes, it uh, wasn't very comfortable either."

Fangirl A looked satisfied that her advice had met its mark. She started giggling. "Okay so! My question is, why does the TARDIS take you to all these random whacked out places?! Doesn't she know you could get shot by gangsters or something?!"

The Doctor didn't seem quite sure how to answer.

"Well, ah... She takes me to where people need help, as far as I can tell. And there's often a lot of danger involved in that, after all."

Fangirl B grabbed the mic from A. "First of all, you are a plain gorgeous creature. Question: what conditioner do you use?"

"Hair products, you mean? Er, none. My hair is the way it is naturally. However it is."

Fangirl B looked simultaneously admiring and disgusted. "Isn't that _always_ the way?" she commented to the other judges. "Boys have all the luck with naturally wonderful hair."

Fangirl C rolled her eyes as she relieved B of the microphone. "Describe your perfect day," she read with equanimity from the sheet in her hand.

The Doctor pondered, hand to chin. "Well, I'd wake up early, but have a nice, slow morning in the library with a whole pot of tea. The greater part of the day would be spent exploring a planet I've never seen before--a _safe_ one--and I'd finish up with a picnic supper watching a twin sunset."

Yo could almost see the stars in Fangirl B's eyes. "How's Friday for you?" she murmured, hands clasped in front of her chest. Fangirl C wordlessly handed her the sheet of questions and pointed at a line. Fangirl B looked, and snapped back to reality with a frown. "Oh. I thought you said perfect _date_. Still..."

"Thank you, Eighth Doctor!" The Doctor gave a final smile at the box--where the pigtailed judge was making telephone gestures and mouthing "call me"--and retreated down the catwalk to take his place next to Five.

"Our third contestant, the Tenth Doctor, actually boasts _two_ signature outfits!" announced the Voice. "Here he is in his first!"

The Tenth emerged in a somewhat poorly-fitting, unapologetically blue suit, with a maroon tie and maroon pair of trainers. No sooner had he cleared the archway than he was nearly blown backward by the force of the boos that met him.

"No blue suit of doom!" came the cries from the audience. The Doctor shrank away as an overripe tomato splattered against the arch. "The brown one! The brown one!"

He quickly obliged. The Doctor disappeared through the archway again, and less than 30 seconds later reappeared dressed again in his other suit and his long coat.

"Ahem." and hear he is in his second!" Encouraged by the lack of catcalls, The Tenth Doctor began striding confidently down the runway. "This perfectly tailored, chocolate-brown pinstriped suit has played no small part in netting this Doctor a rather record-breaking number of intergalactic sweeties!" the Voice proclaimed . Ten laughed only a little sheepishly at this, and waved to the cheering crowd. He held open his coat to display the "perfectly tailored" suit, and the cheering increased.

"What," said Five to Eight, distastefully. "A few regenerations and we turn into some kind of space-time playboy? A tenth-life crisis or something?"

"Sshhh," said Eight.

"And who doesn't love the coat?" the Voice went on. "Stylish and dramatic, it's indispensable for an effective entrance or exit!" The Doctor stopped for a moment in his procession along the catwalk to spin once, causing the coat to flare around him. There was more cheering.

"The coat _is _nice," admitted Five.

"_Sshhh__,_" said Eight.

"And what Doctor hasn't shown a flair for accessorizing?"

Without any further prompting, the Doctor pulled out and donned his hornrimmed glasses. "The brainy specs!" crowed the Voice. Applause, whistles. "And at the other end...?" The Doctor stuck one foot out, and then the other. "Give it up for... the trainers!" More applause, whistles--particularly from the judge's box, where Fangirl C was standing up with a "We (heart) the Converse" sign held high above her head.

"Those were both my idea," Five felt the need to point out.

"_SSHHH__,_" said Eight.

"Now for the questions. Fangirl A?"

"I want to know about the slightly psychic paper!" squeaked A. "Because it's awesome! When did you get it and why didn't you get it any earlier?!"

The Tenth Doctor squinted. "B'lieve I got it a short time before my eighth regeneration. Into my Ninth body, that is." He jabbed a thumb in the direction of the Eighth Doctor. "You know, back when I was still him. Don't really know _why _I didn't get it earlier." He turned toward Eight. "You really should pick some up soon, actually. It's wonderfully useful stuff."

Fangirl A passed the microphone to Fangirl B. The latter raised the sheet of paper which she still held, and looked with an expression of surrender at C, as if to say B could think of _much_ more interesting questions to ask. She left them unsaid, however.

"In all of your travels," she read resignedly, "what's your favorite place to visit and why?"

The Doctor grinned. "Suppose you're wanting some exotic answer, but I'm afraid I'm gonna hafta be boring and say Earth, twentieth and early twenty first centuries. Humans, you know, they're quite my favorite species, and that's such an encouraging time period--you're at the height of your civilization before the isolation really breaks and you become aware of other life in the universe. Honestly, you're just really quite sweet."

Fangirl B simpered and waved her fingertips at him as though it had been a personal compliment, and passed the microphone on to C.

"And what's your question?" he asked her, clearly enjoying himself.

Fangirl C took the mic, and looked straight at the Doctor with eyes just a little too wide. "Can I have your babies?" she enunciated clearly into the microphone.

The Doctor suddenly started coughing violently, as though he had accidentally inhaled his own tongue. Fangirl C sat patiently waiting for her answer. Eventually, the coughing subsided.

"I think," said the Doctor, "that we should"--cough, cough--"get to know each other better first."

"Oh," Fangirl C said meaningfully, "I _definitely_ agree." The coughing resumed.

"Thank yooouuuu, Doctors!" cut in the Voice. The Tenth Doctor made his way back down the catwalk, perhaps a little bit more hurriedly than before. The Eighth followed him out, and the Fifth brought up the rear.

"That," the Voice said, "was part one of our fashion exhibition today."

"_What?_" said the Fifth, taking a step backward to stick his head out through the entrance. A velvet clad arm reached out and hauled him backstage.

"Part two is the formal wear section! Let's see how well our dear Doctors clean up, shall we?"

There was a long pause. After a moment, the Fifth Doctor came out... wearing exactly the same clothes. He cleared his throat. "Ah, I don't actually have a formal outfit. This is sort of... it."

The Eighth followed after him. "Nor do I," he admitted.

"That's really the best you two can do?" said the Voice. It sounded unimpressed.

"Well, you know--never underdressed, right?" Five said hopefully.

"Some variety is never unwelcome though, gentlemen. Let's see if your successor can do any better."

There was another pause. Slowly, a single black trainer, at the end of a black trouser leg, appeared framed in the archway. Then, with a great sense of theatricality, the rest of the Tenth Doctor followed. He posed where he stood, in crisp black tux with pert black bow tie. The audience went crazy with screams.

Ten grinned at his other two selves. "This is how it's done, boys."

He stalked down the runway like he had born to do it. There were numerous instances of posing; at one point he stopped and waggled his eyebrows, and the cheers were deafening.

"All the ladies love a well-dressed man, and nobody knows it better than this one! No need to ask where the party is--the party's where the _Doctor_ is in this stunning tuxedo!" The Fifth snorted.

"Clothes horse," he muttered. The Eighth didn't bother shushing him--it wasn't as though anyone was paying attention to the two of them anymore.

The Tenth posed once more at the end of the catwalk, and even did a couple dance steps, with a big grin on his face. Then he turned back around and strutted back, to parting cheers. Once more, the Eighth and Fifth followed him out.

"And now," said the Voice in a tone of relish, once all the Doctors had disappeared. "The third and final part of this stage is just for you gals... the swimwear section!" There was a yelp from backstage. "The outfits--or lack thereof--in this section have been chosen by our representative fangirls themselves." The judges in the box traded high-fives. "Are the Doctors ready?"

The sounds coming from behind the scenery suggested a heated argument. The words "absolutely not" and "it's just for a minute" distinguished themselves from the hushed but insistent exchange.

"Ready!" called Eight's voice, and another voice followed it with a smothered oath.

"One more time... the Fifth Doctor!"

The named blond stumbled out into the spotlight in a way that suggested being shoved. He shot a dirty look in the direction from which he had come, then gritted his teeth and marched dutifully down the runway with his arms folded tightly across his chest. He was wearing beige swimming trunks with tiny orange fish printed on them.

He stopped at the end of the runway. "I would just like the record to show," he declared in a thin, high voice, "that this whole situation makes me profoundly uncomfortable."

Fangirl A only squealed and giggled. "Fishies!!"

The Doctor turned around without further comment and walked back to his place in front of one of the panels, ignoring the whistles and laughter.

"The Eighth Doctor!"

The pause was less this time before the Doctor emerged, though he walked a little awkwardly in the tight, black-and-white striped Victorian swimming costume.

Fangirl B whooped in appreciation. "Hey, sweet thing!" The Eighth Doctor smiled a little bashfully.

"That," snickered Fangirl C, "Is ridiculous."

"No," corrected B. "That is _hot._" But she tittered too. She continued hooting appreciatively as the Doctor turned around and made his way back down the catwalk. He stood next to the Fifth.

"It's not all _that_ bad." Five looked at him bleakly.

"And finally... the _Tenth Doctor!_"

The other two were almost afraid to look at what their eldest counterpart would emerge wearing. And as it turned out, their apprehension was entirely justified.

"Great Rassillon," gulped Eight.

"My eyes!" wheezed Five.

The eyes of the audience, on the other hand, didn't seem nearly so offended, as the Tenth Doctor, utterly unselfconscious, strolled down the runway wearing a navy blue speedo. The renewed screaming was one clue.

The flying undergarments were another.

This time around, it was not just a few items of lingerie flung in salute to a fine specimen, like the Eighth's carnations. This was a veritable thunderstorm of cotton and satin enthusiasm, starting sparse but quickly becoming a barrage. The air was thick with knickers. A lime green g-string, still disturbingly warm, landed on the Fifth Doctor's bare shoulder; he hastily plucked it off and flicked it away. He watched the onslaught and heard the shrieks in stupefied dismay, while theEighth's expression was one of unconcealed awe. There were no words.

Ten grinned his white-toothed grin and waved like a politician in a rain of ticker tape rather than brassieres and panties. A lacy red number flew past his head. He ducked, and directed a slightly more cautious smile at the judges' box from whence it came.Fangirl C was leaning out over the balcony, waving with one hand and tucking her sweater back in with the other.

The other two fangirls looked at her. She was wearing jeans. With a belt. "Lolwut?!" boggled Fangirl A.

"She does yoga," Fangirl B explained.

The Doctor reached the end of the catwalk and stopped. Various invisible audience members were baying like hounds. A pair of polka-dotted boyshorts were draped unnoticed on the top of his hair. Behind him, Eight raised his hand.

"This, uh... this has gotten rather out of hand, I think," he suggested.

"I agree," said the Voice. "Doctors? Thank you very much, please return backstage and assume your original clothing." The Fifth Doctor wasted no time in complying, while the Eighth followed more calmly behind him. The Tenth gave one more wave and turned around. More whoops accompanied this new view of him.

"_Audience_," the Voice boomed sternly. "Please quiet down and keep your hands and feet and, for those of you who still have them, undergarments to yourselves for the remainder of the competition, or risk expulsion from thefic!" The hubbub gradually calmed.

"Thank you," said the voice as the three Doctors emerged from stage left, straightening their clothing and patting down hair. The scenery pieces began to lift into the air again. "Stage hands," called the Voice. "We need some cleanup out here."

A figure in a janitorial jumpsuit appeared through the door through which the Doctors had just come, walking behind a push broom. He very deliberately did not acknowledge the Time Lords. One of them, however, acknowledged him.

"Rickey!" Ten cried happily.

"Mickey," snapped Mickey, still not looking up. He dourly swept the various unmentionables into a pile.

"Sorry about the knickers," said the Tenth Doctor brightly. "Just sor' of... happened."

Mickey looked up at last, and his glare held unspeakable venom.

"Oh, wait!" exclaimed Ten. Mickey stopped. The Doctor reached into his coat pocket and fished out the pair of panties that had perched upon his head. "One more." He dropped it into the pile and gave Mickey a cheerful smile.

"Judges!" said the Voice. "Do you have your final decisions?"

The three fangirls raised three placards. Fangirl C's read "Ten"... Fangirl B's read "Ten"... and Fangirl A's read "We (heart) the celery."

"So, uh... two votes for Ten and one vote for... the celery. Looks like _Ten takes the round!_"

Applause filled the air. The Eighth Doctor clapped politely; the Fifth Doctor clapped ironically. The Tenth Doctor grinned, tried to look modest, and failed. Mickey said a very rude word, and pushed the pile of underthings back past the three Doctors and offstage.

--

My brain: That… was just completely insane.

Me: I KNOW. But once it started it just didn't stop. Plus, I never knew until now how much I wanted to write the sentence "The air was thick with knickers."

My brain: …Whatever. Anything else like that and I'm leaving. I don't think you'd miss me anyway.


	3. The Hair Contest

AN:You people and your reviews, you give me happies inside. I love the thought I'm making other people laugh. Naomi, of course, this chapter is for you! ;P

My brain: (skeptical) When did Ten become such a kissyface?  
Me: Since, um, ALWAYS. Tree girl? Cassandra-Rose? Mme. De Pompadour? Martha? Astrid? It's kind of what he does.  
My brain: ...yeah, I guess.  
Me: HAH. TOTALLY IC.  
My brain: No, still unforgivable schlock.  
Me: But AWESOME unforgiveable schlock.  
My brain: ...

--

"The next stage in our competition," announced the invisible voice, "will be... hair!"

"Hair?" snorted the Fifth Doctor. "There needs to be an entire stage for _hair_?"

"Well," said the Eighth mildly, "If it's what it will take to make them happy and let us go."

The Fifth looked at him and snorted again. "You're one to talk. Look at you! If they judge on quantity you're certain to win, aren't you?"

"Hey now," smirked the Tenth. "No need to be grumpy. Least you've got all your hair this time around." The Fifth Doctor bristled.

"I tell you, that was a temporal anomaly. I am not, nor have I ever actually been, _bald_." He narrowed his eyes at the Tenth. "_Rooster_ boy."

The Tenth's hands went to his hair defensively. He looked as though he was about to object when the voice spoke up again.

"Due to the tactile nature of this stage"--the Doctors exchanged a quick, uncertain look--"our three judges will be brought onstage, in order to most accurately determine the wonderfulness of the contestants' hair." The curtain behind the Doctors parted near the bottom to about the width of a doorway, and at the sound of muffled giggling the three turned around.

"And here are your judges!" crowed the Voice. "Fangirl A, you will be judging the Fifth Doctor!" A marched out from the opening, and came to stand before her Doctor. She looked up at him, her hands held behind her back and a gigantic grin on her face.

"Hi!"

The Fifth Doctor looked enormously disconcerted. "Um, hello."

"I think you're awesome!"

"Uh, you... already said that?" The fangirl abruptly began to giggle. Loudly. The Fifth Doctor didn't move, but his eyes went wide and desperate in horror.

"Fangirl B, you will be judging the Eighth Doctor!"

The pigtailed girl emerged, and walked up to the Eighth.

"Hello," he said pleasantly.

"Your cravat is insanely sexy," she informed him.

He smiled uncertainly. "Yes, ah, that was the last stage, wasn't it? Aren't you supposed to, er, be judging my hair?" She nodded, grinning.

"Don't worry. Your hair is insanely sexy, too."

"And Fangirl C, you will be judging the Tenth Doctor!" announced the Voice. The violet-haired young woman came out from the curtain, and it closed behind her. She stopped about three inches away from the Tenth Doctor, and promptly pulled his tie out of his coat. A firm tug on it brought the taller Time Lord's face down to her level.

"I think standing up puts you at an unfair advantage, don't you?" The Tenth Doctor could only gulp in response.

As if on that cue, Mickey Smith walked out in his janitorial jumpsuit, carrying a heavy chair. The stage was mostly silent as he walked across the stage, dropped the chair in place with a vindicative clunk and went back for the next chair. It would have been mostly silent, at least, if it hadn't been for Fangirl A. She grabbed the panama hat from the Fifth Doctor's head, holding it out of his reach when he snatched at it.

"Please return my hat," he entreated.

"Yooouu can't weeeaaarr it!" she informed him in a singsong. "I have to judge your haaaaiiirrr!"

The Fifth saw the logic in this, and made just one more futile swipe before giving up. Fangirl A observed her trophy.

"It's a hat!" she said with joy. She perched the hat on her own head, and she exploded in chittery laughter. "Lawl, I has a hat!" Five thought it best to say nothing.

There was a final, annoyed _clunk_ of the last chair. Ten tried to wave good-naturedly at Mickey as the latter passed grumblingly by, but his balance was thrown a little off by Fangirl C attempting to crawl onto his back.

"The Doctors will take a seat," instructed the voice, "and their respective judges will kerfuffle their hair for five minutes."

"Kerfuffle?" echoed the Eighth Doctor, whose fangirl was snuggled up against him, having wrapped one side of his velvet jacket partially around her while she dug around in the pocket of the other side for sweets.

"It's a concept best taught by experience," replied the Tenth, trying to readjust his tie as best he could while trying to hold up Fangirl C piggyback. "Allons-y, then! For science!"

With some necessary shifting of how the judges were attached to their contestants, the Doctors managed to get to their chairs and sit down.

"Ready?" asked the Voice.

"Yep!" said the fangirls in unison. The Fifth Doctor could be heard to groan a "No" under his breath, but the Voice ignored him.

"Begin!"

Fangirl A, still wearing the panama hat, had somehow managed to sit on the back of the Fifth Doctor's chair, her legs dangling over his shoulders as she began happily ruffling his blond hair. "Have you fought any Daleks lately?!" she chirped. "I think Daleks are awesome!"

"Awesome?" sputtered the Doctor, turning to look at her. He was startled to find her grinning face not a handsbreadth from his own, and pulled back as best he could with his shoulders pinned by her knees. "They're my most evil enemy! They're not... they're not awesome."

"Oh, I think you're awesomer!"

"That's... that's not even a word," he said in miserable bewilderment.

"Your celery is awesome, too!"

"Would you _please_ stop saying 'awesome'?" the Doctor begged. He put up a hand to smooth his hair back down.

"No interfering with the judging, please!" boomed the Voice, and he quickly lowered it again.

"Okay!" acquiesced Fangirl A. "Your celery is win!"

The Fifth Doctor looked as though something pained him. "But 'win' is a verb, not a..." He gave it up, and turned toward the Eighth. "Is this... _normal_?"

"For fangirls?" replied the Eighth. His own fangirl was sitting on his lap with the bag of jelly babies in hers, parting the strands of his long hair and cooing contentedly. "You'd be surprised what's normal for them. I've had a few in my time. The Tenth seems to have some experience too, from..."

He and the Fifth turned their heads toward the Tenth's chair. There was nobody in it. The Doctor was rather, on the floor next to the chair, being snogged very enthusiastically by his judge. The Fifth Doctor was indignant.

"What, and that's not interfering with the judging?" he called over his judge's head. Fangirl A, having seen the find Fangirl B had made, had started rummaging in the Fifth's tailcoat pockets, and was leaned over his shoulder in order to better search.

"Well, she_ is _mussing his hair quite a bit," observed Eight. "Though I must admit it lacks a certain professionalism. Oh! Thank you," he added, addressing Fangirl B, who was holding an orange jelly baby in front of his mouth. He opened it and she popped it in. He smiled sunnily at her.

The Fifth, unlike his more easily distracted self, was unwilling to put up with this broach of the thin protocol available in the situation.

"Ten!" he called. The other Doctor seemed a bit preoccupied hanging on for dear life. Hanging on to his _judge_ for dear life, Five noted grimly. "Ten!" No answer except a grunt. "_Doctor!_" he barked. The Tenth Doctor at last sat bolt up, looking very rumpled and wearing more lipgloss in many more places than was entirely decent for a Time Lord.

"Wot?"

"Can you _please_ try to control yourself?" he said witheringly. The Tenth looked contrite.

"Sorry," he said, wiping at his mouth with his coat sleeve. "Sorry. Can't help it, these kinds of things just sor' of... happen to me." He cleared his throat. "Won't happen again. _Well... _probably won't happen. _Well..._ I apologize in advance."

"She's still on top of you," Five pointed out coldly. Ten turned back to Fangirl C, who was indeed still sitting on him, and was also, for some reason, now wearing his tie.

He looked back at the Fifth Doctor. "So she is." He looked back at the fangirl. "So you are."

"So I am," was her response. She rolled off of him, but when he tried to get up, she promptly grabbed the back of his coat collar and pulled his head into her lap. "Judging isn't over."

"Quite," he squeaked.

"It was a bit much for the Fifth, unaccustomed as he was to fangirlism. "This whole fiasco--" he began to say authoritatively to the Eighth Doctor. But upon turning to his older self, he was chagrined to find that the Eighth's judge now had both hands buried in her contestant's silky tresses and was following Fangirl C's example. The Doctor, in turn, wasn't exactly putting up a fight, despite his earlier comment about professionalism.

Five was interrupted in his scandalized gaping by Fangirl A's voice in his ear. "Can you make a new sonic screwdriver?! And since you don't want it, can I have it?!"

He turned his head cautiously. She was munching from the bag of jelly babies the other fangirl had abandoned in favor of yummier fare. He wondered dimly how she'd reached it without getting off his shoulders.

"I... I don't have the materials with me," he admitted with a little desperation. She frowned, but brightened again quickly enough as she went back to her kerfuffling task.

"How about cybermen?"

The Doctor looked utterly gobsmacked. "Can you... have one?"

Her green eyes got suddenly large, and she leaned in even closer, so that the Doctor had to pull back or go cross-eyed. "Ohemjee _can I?! _Do you _have _one?!"

He quailed. "No! Why would I?"

She started in again on her sudden, loud, continuous giggling. He found it very unnerving.

"That wasn't what I was asking anyway!" she giggled. "I wanted to know if you've fought any lately!!"

He realized after a moment that she was continuing along the line of the Daleks, from a few minutes ago.

"Not lately," he said wearily. "Let me guess--you think they're awesome."

"Not as awesome as you!" she said generously. "Your celery is cool!" She held out a jelly baby for him. "Want one?!" He reluctantly accepted it, acting a little intimidated.

"Time!" the Voice called at last. The two elder Doctors and their judges didn't appear to hear. Eight and his fangirl were contentedly rubbing noses; Ten still had his head in his fangirl's lap, where they were exploring the frontier of the upside-down snog.

"Time," said the Voice with a bit more firmness. The Eighth Doctor and his pigtailed admirer looked up, then followed Five's flat stare to the third couple, on the ground.

"How does she manage to kiss him while he's still in her lap?" asked Eight curiously.

"She does yoga," Fangirl B explained.

The Voice cleared its throat. "_Time!_" said the voice and the Fifth Doctor together. The remaining two broke and came to attention.

"Sorry!" The Tenth tried to sit up, but Fangirl C kept her hands on his shoulders.

"You stay here."

"Yes ma'am."

"Fangirl A!" cried the voice. "What is your judgment?"

"She sat up straight where she was still perched on his chair. Five sat beneath her, looking resigned, his hair teased into a dandelion-like puff. "His hair is soft and fluffy and pretty!" she announced. "I like it!!"

"Fangirl B!" the voice continued.

The named judge turned to face forward, while the Eighth Doctor surreptitiously rebuttoned his waistcoat. "His hair is fricking _gorgeous_," said she. "I love it and I could play with it forever. True fact."

"Fangirl C!" said the voice.

"This man," Fangirl C declared, "is a sexy beast. And his hair is the hair of a sexy beast. I want to take him home with me." The Tenth Doctor looked like he was considering objecting, but not very strongly.

There was a suspenseful pause as a drum roll started. "The final determination is..." A cymbal crash ended the roll. "While the Tenth Doctor elicited the strongest response from a judge, the Eighth elicited the strongest hair-relevant response."

Ten pouted, though is indignation was lessened in its effect by his position. "Oh, _really._ That's a technicality!"

"Sorry Ten," said the voice, "but Eight takes the prize this round!" The spotlights spun, and Fangirl B planted on the winner a congratulatory smooch, while Fangirl C delivered a consolation prize to Ten and Five reclaimed his hat.

The music came up. "Will the judges please exit stage left," said the Voice in a tone that suggested it knew it wouldn't be that easy.

Fangirl A gave her Doctor another ebullient smile and skipped off. Fangirl B, on the other hand, clung defensively to the Eighth Doctor, and Fangirl C pretended that she hadn't heard.

"Stage hands?" the Voice said.

"No way, mate," came Mickey's voice from offstage. "I'm havin' no part of that."

The two judges looked smug until the scenery hooks began descending. They looked at each other, looked at their Doctors, weighed the pros and cons of being pulleyed up by their dignity like involuntary Christmas angels... and made themselves scarce.


	4. The Cricket Game

AN: I'm really sorry about the delay, you guys. :( I had this chapter almost entirely written out… and then I lost it, with no backup. Having to write it all out again was a little discouraging. To make up for it, this finale chapter is almost twice as long as all the other chapters!

So who do you think is going to win? Nobody out there in audienceland is pulling for Five, are they? Poor guy. I think he deserves a break…

**--**

Once order had been restored and hair had been smoothed back into its proper arrangement, the Fifth Doctor stepped forward.

"If we're going to continue this farce," he said, tugging at his lapels in a rearrangement of his disheveled clothing, "then I propose--" He stopped, and his hand flattened over the blank space on his left lapel. The Doctor looked down, astounded.

"She stole my celery!" He looked behind him to where his hair judge had skipped off. "When did she do that? I didn't feel her do anything!" He looked back down, as though checking if it was really gone, and then looked back behind him. "She _stole_ my celery!"

The other two Doctors waited patiently while the Fifth recovered from the egregious theft. He composed himself, cleared his throat, and tugged once on his lapels again. "Yes. Well. As I was saying. If we're going to continue this farce, then I propose a competition a little more fair to the rest of us." He held up his chin in an air of advance victory. "An _athletic_ competition!"

The Eighth Doctor politely covered his smirk with his hand. The Tenth, on the other hand, eschewed smirking in favor of drolly exaggerated solemnity.

"Really, now!" he said innocently. "And what sort of athleticism did you have in mind?"

"I happen to have here, "Five began importantly, reaching into his pocket. He stopped again, then started digging more ardently. He tried the other one. "Rasillon!" he swore. "She stole my _cricket ball!_" He looked around again, as though expecting to see the thieving fangirl still lurking about.

"The administration," cut in the voice, "has no opposition to an athletic competition, and can provide the equipment for a cricket game so long as the contestants can explain where the rest of the teammates will come from."

Five looked self-satisfied. "Obviously, 'the administration' has the ability to fetch me out of my own timeline, yes? But I'm wondering: why is it htat I always meet my other regenerations? Couldn't I cross the timeline of my _current_ regeneration just as easily?"

The other two Doctors looked at each other warily. "Not entirely safe, is that?" ventured the Eighth.

"Poppycock," the Fifth Doctor said happily. "Just pluck a full complement from longer than a cricket game's length apart."

"Think that will work?" the Tenth said with some doubt.

"I know it will," Five answered, smiling smugly, "because I can remember playing on a mysterious cricket team with myself about an Earth month ago."

The Tenth shrugged gamely, but the Eight's brow furrowed.

"Then why don't I remember going through all this as you?" he said, frowning. The Tenth Doctor patted him consolingly on the back.

"Wibbly wobbly, timey--"

"That doesn't explain anything, you know."

"Don't question the plot holes," was Ten's only reply. "It'll just make this all take longer."

"Very well," said the voice. "The third and final stage of the competition shall be... a cricket game for the title!" There was a great flash of white light. When the light faded again, the Doctors found themselves on a great, grassy cricket field. It was silent and empty, with only one spectator box, holding three spectators: the judges, all holding TARDIS-blue pompoms. Fangirl A looked enthused out of her mind, while B and C were busy making eyes at the Eighth and Tenth Doctors--all of them. For not only were the three original contestants standing in the sunlight (two identifiable by their slightly rumpled state, and the third by his expression of satisfaction) but several copies of each were gathered according to their regenerations.

"Will all Doctors please enter the dressing rooms--um, one at a time--and don their equipment for the next stage of the competition," instructed the Voice. The small crowd of Fifth Doctors didn't need to be told twice. Apparently the prospect of a game was reason enough to accept the odd circumstances for the time being. The "original" Five delivered a minimal explanation as they all made their way to the dressing rooms.

The other two teams were having a bit more difficulty. The now-captain of the Eights managed to explain the situation roughly to his other selves, but once the explanation was delivered, they all seemed content to stand about admiring the weather, and each other, and the cricket field, and the set-up as a whole. The Tens, on the other hand, hadn't even gotten around to the explanation by the time the Fives were returning to the field in matching cricket gear. Rather, they were absorbed in figuring out how who related to who chronologically, and comparing moles. The moles were, of course, all exactly alike, which prompted more than one utterance of "Brilliant!"

Team Five assumed a directive role, ushering the other two over to their respective piles of equipment and prompting their preparations along with as much sternnness as could be mustered in the face of this cheerful (to the Fifth's mind) turn of events. Once all the philistines were reprimanded, coats and jackets shed, and pads strapped on, and places taken, the game got underway.

The three fangirls on the sidelines cheered--or, in the case of Fangirl A, produced an enormous foam finger from some unknown place and immediately started screaming blue murder. Her eyes bugged with the effort of the noise she was making, and her tonsils were clearly visible from halfway across the cricket field. The impressive sound surprised the other two fangirls into silence at first, so that for a few minutes the dominant sound ringing across the large field was her storm-siren call. Some of the Doctors found this a bit unnerving, but nothing could faze the Fifth Doctors in the pursuit of their favorite sport.

"Three balls to come!" advised the umpire and moved out of the path of the bowler. The batting Five relaxed his body, and gave alert concentration to the onslaught of the ball. It came hurtling in, on a good line and length, and the Doctor met it firmly in the middle of the bad in a classic forward defensive stroke.

Fangirls B and C cheered good-naturedly despite not knowing what a classic defensive stroke was, and shook their pompoms, while C continued screaming and swung her foam finger around in a markedly dangerous manner.

The spin bowler Eighth, out of countenance that a tail-end batsman should treat him with such disrespect, decided to tempt the Fifth away from the crease with a short googly. But the Five wasn't deceived by the cunningly concealed action. He saw how the ball left the bowler's hand, and knew that when it pitched on the wicket, it would turn unexpectedly the other way. Again, with impeccable footwork, he moved the spin, and pulled the ball to the midwicket boundary. The Fifth now faced five balls, from which he'd scored fifteen runs.

"Is this quite right?" called an Eighth to a Tenth.

The latter shrugged. "Honestly, it's been a while. I'm a little rusty."

As the Fifth Doctor did more amazing cricket-related things, Fangirl C paused in her slightly confused cheering to turn to Fangirl B. "Who's winning? I don't have any idea how this game is played."

"Oh, me neither," B answered cheerily. "I just think Eight looks fit in his shirtsleeves."

C looked over at A, who didn't seem to have taken a breath in a number of minutes. "How about her?" said Fangirl C. "Does _she_ understand it?"

"Nah," said B. "She just likes to yell."

The new bowler was of medium pace, with a short run up. His first ball was straight and on a good length; the Fifth Doctor played it defensively, back down the wicket. The bowler fielded the ball, and made his way leisurely to his mark. The next ball was short, outside the off stump, and the Fifth drove it through cover for four. He was on ninety-five.

Mickey, carrying two large, plastic jugs of water, wandered over from who-knows-where and stood next to Fangirl C's end of the spectator box. He watched the Time Lords playing their game with some distaste.

"Who's winning?" he asked.

Fangirl C shook her indigo head. "Hoped you could tell us."

"More of a rugby man myself." He put down the jugs, and leaned casually on the edge of the spectator box. "So," he said to C. "After this fanfic, do you want to--"

She stopped him with an upheld hand, not taking her eyes off the cricket game. "I'm here for Ten, man."

Mickey subtly shifted the direction he was facing, pretending he had meant to direct the question at Fangirl B. "Because I know this place--"

"Forget about it, tin dog."

Mickey gave an uncertain glance at Fangirl A. Before he had decided whether to say anything, she stopped screaming, looked straight at him, and chucked one of her pompoms at his head. He ducked and A went back to her howl.

"It's always going to be about the Doctor, isn't it?" he whined. "It's never going to be about _me!_"

"Pretty much, yeah," said Fangirl B, rolling her eyes. "Why don't you get over it and hang out with a guy that's going to make you look good?" Mickey glared, pouted, and went away sulking. The fangirls went back to watching the cricket game, where the Fifth Doctor had just apparently performed a hat trick.

"What's a hat trick?" asked B.

"Beats me," said C.

The Fifth Doctor watched the bowler direct a fielder to come in closer to the bat, to the silly mid-on position, and smiled. He played the next ball with circumspection, bat together with the bad and acutely angled, to smother the spin, and keep the ball well out of the prehensile grip of the Tenth in the silly position. The fourth ball was a quicker one, and short on the leg slump. The Fifth hooked it for six.

"Wait, what's so silly about the mid-on position?" asked Fangirl C. "I don't get it. And how long has this round or whatever it is lasted? Does the _author_ even know what's going on?"

"No clue," said the Voice. "I've just been transcribing the cricket passages from my Doctor Who audiobook. I think it's about time someone won though."

Then the Fifth Doctor took the bat and hit the ball, which were the only two words that made sense in this entire game, out of the park, or green, or field, or whichever you want to call it, and there was line and length and depth and width and height which were all equally good. He was making centuries! And performing hat tricks! And the others were making ducks! And the ducks were performing hat tricks, and the hat tricks were making ducks, and then all the centuries of ducks in hats sat down with the Doctors around the wickets and the stumps and had tea and crumpets and it was all very British.

"I don't think," said a very baffled Eighth Doctor to a Tenth over his teacup, "that this is how the game is played."

"I was thinking the same thing," replied the Tenth, picking a duck feather off of a crumpet. "I know I remember less molting."

The team of Fifth Doctors paraded, cheering, across the cricket field, their team captain riding triumphantly atop shoulders. "Three cheers for Five! Hip, hip, hurrah! Hip, hip, hurrah! Hip, hip, _hurrah!_"

The fangirls had climbed over the wall of the box and stormed the field. Fangirl A was gathering up squirming, flapping armfuls of ducks, while B and C were doling out the teams of Doctors between them.

"An Eight for me, a Ten for you," B was chanting gleefully. "An Eight for me, a Ten for you…"

"I am pleased to proclaim the clear winner—at least, clear to the Doctors—of the match," cried the Voice. The drumroll sounded, but seeming to sense that damage control was more of an issue now than suspense, hurriedly ended itself. "The Fifth Doctor!"

There were deafening cheers from an unseen audience, and, as they died again, a flash of white light just as before. The Doctors found themselves on the dim, spotlighted stage once again. The ducks, hats, tea and crumpets, cricket equipment, and extra Doctors had disappeared. From offstage came assorted noises of disappointment on the part of the fangirls.

"It's a tie, then!" the Voice announced, as victorious music played and colored spotlights swirled on the stage. "Each of our Doctors have won a round, proving themselves indeed prettyboys of the highest caliber! Fangirls?"

At the cue, B and C ran out from the wings—B carrying Eight's coat and a shiny golden loving cup, and C carrying _two_ cups as well as the coats of both Ten and Five. C handed the Fifth his coat, and presented his loving cup, engraved 'Prettyboy Doctor Championship—Winner of the Cricket Game,' which he proudly accepted. She then marched over to the Tenth Doctor and delivered his, plus (as B was already doing to Eight) a reward of her own kind; Ten seemed somewhat more interested in that than the gold trophy.

"And, as promised, your TARDISes!" The curtain at the back of the stage rose, revealing three grand blue timeships all in a row. "We thank you very much for your kind participation. May all your adventures be gorgeous indeed!" The front curtain went slowly down, to thunderous applause and hearty cheers. When at last they died, the Doctors and the two fangirls were left on the stage between the curtain and their TARDISes.

Eight stood, with Fangirl B attatched lovingly to his arm, admiring his cup for a moment, with its engraving that pronounced him winner of the hair contest. "Well," said he. "That was fun."

"Quite," beamed the Fifth Doctor, admiring his own trophy. "Smashing game!"

"I feel a bit sorry for you, though," said the Tenth, with his arm around Fangirl C.

Five scoffed. "Whatever for?" he said. "You're the ones who lost the match."

Ten grinned. "That _was_ quite the odd cricket game. But I mean… you know, the _attention_, the idolization…"

"The public displays of affection?" commented the Fifth Doctor dryly. Ten coughed, and he and Eight glanced at each other. The Fangirls also exchanged grins.

"Well, yes, there's that," Ten admitted. "But not just that."

"I agree," put in Eight a little sheepishly. "There's something to it, being admired—"

"Adored," corrected Fangirl B.

The Fifth brushed them off. "You can keep that. I had a magnificent game of cricket, and I'm quite ready to be on my way."

The Tenth Doctor shrugged. "Have it your own way. You'll have the attention soon enough, I suppose!" He smirked widely at the two other Doctors, and lifted a hand in farewell. "Look forward to you being me soon!" He took a deep breath. "Allons-y, then, madam!" he crowed to Fangirl C, and they strode off to his TARDIS.

"Likewise!" the Eighth called to his other two regenerations. "Come on," he chimed to the bright-eyed admirer on his arm, "Our carriage awaits!" He escorted her cheerily to the second blue box in the row.

Five pulled on his coat as the two timeships disappeared, engines growling. He took a step in the direction of his own TARDIS—and then stopped with a frown. His hand went up to his head, but he felt only his fluff of blond hair. "Confound it," he grumbled. "I must have left my hat on the field."

"Meep!" came a soft noise from behind him. The Doctor turned around. There was Fangirl A, wearing his hat _and_ his celery, and holding out his cricket ball.

"I thought your cricket game was awesome!" she chirped. The Doctor put out his hand to take his hat, but hesitated, and then lowered it again.

"Thank you," he smiled. "It was, wasn't it?" Fangirl C nodded enthusiastically.

"I was about to be on my way," said the Doctor. A pause. Fangirl C's eyes glowed with hope. "Would you like to come with me?"

The girl squealed and threw her arms around his neck. "_Yes!_ Oh em gee yes!!"

The Fifth Doctor laughed in spite of himself. "Let's go, then!"

The fangirl released him and ran ahead into the TARDIS, but then stuck her head out again as the Doctor approached and laid his hand on the door handle.

"Hey!" she peeped. "Do you think maybe I could have…?!" And the Fifth Doctor grinned.

"I'll see if I can scare up a sonic screwdriver for you." The fangirl squealed again, and popped back into the TARDIS. The Doctor followed her; a few moments later, with a happy roar of engines, the last police box vanished.

Mickey Smith came out, scowled at the empty stage, and flipped off the lights.

.

.

.

--

Me: Well! That was fun, wasn't it?

My brain: …

Me: Brain? Hello?

-door slams-

Me: Wait, Brain, come back! I think I need you!! T.T


End file.
